


Start Me Up

by aseriousbunburyist



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:57:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1863687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aseriousbunburyist/pseuds/aseriousbunburyist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Bones steal cars for a living. Probably shouldn't have lifted one from a certain Vulcan, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start Me Up

If the sirens in his life were music, Jim was the composer. 

He'd been piecing his symphony together for years. He stole his first car when he was fourteen, and won in his first drag race a week later. After a small eternity of the local county cops side eyeing him every time he moved, Jim skipped town to "explore more engaging opportunities". His words, when people asked. (Ted's had been more along the lines of "Get the fuck out of state.") He floated around the West Coast offering his services to anyone who'd pay. Every scrape, every close call was a standing reminder of success, that he had set the odds against himself and won. Every siren he collected, well… that was validation.

And then he met Bones. Bones, so called for his ability to strip a car to its skeleton cleaner and faster than anyone in the Mid West. Bones, who tossed Jim out on his ass the first time he stepped foot in his garage, told him he didn't need some "punk kid complicating an honest job," and he almost kept a straight face when he said it. Jim came back every day for a week, and on the last day Bones threw in his oil rag and packed his life into Jim's Jeep. They found a small two car garage that doubled as a gas station, with a smaller apartment overtop, and went into business. Bones hired a Scottish guy to run the pumps out front, on the man's own varied and inconsistent schedule, for the illusion of a licit undertaking. Anyone who looked a little closer would notice details incongruous to a good, honest business: the various skid marks where Jim had swung into the garage a little too zealously; the safe under Bones desk, housing suspicious bookkeeping; the license plate press half hidden behind a car lift. 

It had started as a chop shop. Jim handled Acquisitions (he had business cards), but they quickly discovered they could be making more than triple the profit selling the cars to interested buyers. Bones' skill set easily adapted, and Jim had always been a natural, tune ups and repairs coming as easy as he lived and breathed. Most cars they sold themselves, after Bones proved to be a wicked negotiator. He also carried over some old contacts for getting rid of the flashier models, and hired out a woman named Carol for more delicate work, bigger buys. She moved in circles Jim and Bones had no contact with, which they all preferred. Bones tried to keep their interactions as limited as possible, dealing with Jim and Carol in a room together for extended periods of time 

("Jim, if you could fence half as well as you allegedly fuck, then I wouldn't even be here. This is genuine business."

"You sell cars illegally for a living, Carol, tell me how that's genuine."

"It may be a little hard for a twocking delinquent to wrap his head around--"

"Hey, I can just joy ride our business to another taker if you'd prefer it. I'm sure any number of people would be happy to--"

"Len, is he always this ridiculous?")

would run him into an early grave. Or he would run into an open grave. One or the other. It was hard to say.

They'd been open for three months when they finally fell into bed together. Life went on and they did alright with the honest business the shop brought in, which amused Jim to no end. The garage housed a small lift on one side, a desk on the other, and a connecting door (Jim used the term "door" loosely, the frame held a curtain of beads that they never got around to taking down after purchasing the place) to the small room that barely accommodated a counter. The old cash register took up most of that space, and it handled the cash coming in from the two old, but functional, gas pumps out front. The garage also stored some tools, basic equipment, plastic fuel canisters. Jim and Bones took little jobs for locals, strangers who'd been stranded by an empty tank or a blown gasket.

This time, sirens didn't follow Jim. His ride demanded silence, appreciation. Jim knew when to trade flare for quiet success. He took a turn off the highway, where the road just turned to dirt, his face lit by the grin he'd worn the entire drive home.

o0o

Jim waved to Scotty on the way in, who was perched behind the counter he rarely moved from. He peeled into the garage in a controlled burn of rubber, a fanfare of inertial resistance. He was barely at a halt when he whooped and slammed the door shut behind him. 

"Take you all day to steal one car, Jim?" Bones asked drily from his desk, facing away from the open garage door and Jim's latest achievement.

"I would have spent a week of my life to get this baby."

Bones' mouth was open in another half-formed question when the keys hit him in the arm and dropped to the floor. He leaned over his chair to retrieve them and sighed. "Could we maybe not throw things?" 

Jim shrugged noncommittally. Bones ignored him in favour of taking the ring and hanging it on a cork board behind his desk. Scattered on short hook screws was a multitude of keys, each with their own identifying fob. They featured feathers, miniature plastic cars, various state keychains, and, notably: a shot glass with a hole drilled sideways through the base ("Multifunctional," Jim said); a pine tree air freshener ("The old license plate was from Maine!"); and fuzzy dice that dwarfed the keys attached to them ("Who doesn't like fuzzy dice, Bones, honestly"). Jim had his system, and Bones didn't pretend to understand it. 

They kept the cars themselves in a barn half a mile out, gave a handsome cut to the farmer who no longer had a use for it. It was too risky, too amateur, to keep them at the shop, never mind that they didn't have the space. 

"Could a child steal this?" Jim's tone pulled Bones around in his chair, his gaze sailing right passed Jim to land on the 1963 Jaguar XKE Roadster convertible.

He blinked. It was still there. 

"Shit."

" _Right?_ " Jim agreed, and Bones noticed the vein of giddiness in Jim's voice, how he was still slightly breathless from the ride, high from the steal. Jim leaned a hip against the door and crossed his arms over his chest, possessive and proud.

"You make sure you weren't followed?"

Normally the question would have irked Jim. He shook his head at Bones and snorted. "What am I, Bones, a common criminal? Made up a new heat run for her honour," he said, patting the door fondly.

"We might need Carol for this." Bones stood and stalked over to the car, admiring the angles, the detailing.

"She'd probably buy it flat out, wouldn't even bother trying to find a buyer."

"She just might," Bones said, slid fingers through light film of dirt she'd picked up from the road. A good wash and wax would take it to a whole new level. He smirked. "Not bad, Jim. Not bad."

"That smug Vulcan didn't know what hit him."

That brought an abrupt halt to Bones' examination. "You lifted this from a Vulcan?" he asked slowly.

"It was way too good for him. Bet he bought it just to impress his stuck up girlfriend." Jim grinned. "But fair play to him, I guess, she was fucking hot. Anyway, hot-wiring this baby would've been sacrilegious, so I picked 'em right on the street. He was holding her purse while she rooted around in the trunk. I nabbed the keys, walked around the block, and drove off while they were getting lunch or whatever."

"Are you insane?" Bones continued slowly, as if talking to a child. A reckless, moronic child. Who happened to be very good at stealing cars. "Don't answer that," Bones changed tack suddenly, crowding Jim further against the door. "And what, exactly," he asked, running his thumb over a nick in the paint by Jim's left hip, "is that?" Jim broke eye contact and focused on a point somewhere over Bones' shoulder.

"You get a scratch on my car?" Bones asked, voice low. His hands rest on either side of Jim's hips.

"I thought it was the Vulcan's car," Jim sniped.

Bones' eyebrows decided to do all the talking for him, conveying a clear _You thought wrong._

Jim rolled his eyes. "C'mon, I could buff that out in, like, twenty minutes. Tops. Wouldn't even need to call Sulu."

But Bones wasn't giving an inch, and this was a staring contest Jim was so not interested in having. He was even less interested in losing the end of Bones' good mood, though, so he cut his losses. 

"I'm sorry I scratched your car," he said, making up for his insincerity with eye contact.

Bones hummed. "Now, it doesn't really sound like you mean it, Jim."

"Do you need me to?"

"It might be a nice change of pace," Bones said, pressing his thumb under the corner of Jim's jaw, tilting his head to expose his neck, "for you to mean it." Jim's eyes flicked to Bones' face, but Bones was occupied, cataloguing the way Jim's arms stretched the fabric of his t-shirt, how his jeans had been worn threadbare and downright sinful. When Bones finally turned his attention back to Jim's eyes, his mouth, he was speculative. Expectant. 

"Jim."

"I-- shit, sorry I scratched your car."

"Gonna make it up to me?"

"I can think of a few--"

"Because I think a start would be to give my new ride a good scrub down." 

Bones lifted hands from the side of the car and dusted them off on Jim's shirt, aiming one last smack to Jim's chest with the back of his hand before turning back to his desk. Jim clenched the door and glared holes through Bones' back. 

"And I mean 'til it shines, Jim."

Jim saluted sarcastically and walked over, snagging the keys pointedly off the wall. He got into the left sided driver's seat, slung an arm over the passenger seat and turned to reverse. 

As he was pulling out Bones added, like an afterthought, "And then maybe later I'll fuck you on it."

o0o

The joke was on Bones, though, because Jim was not getting worked up. He drove the car out to the barn and parked it next to the old water pump that had been there for longer than Jim had been alive. Along with the cars, they also stored buckets, rags, and various cleaners in the barn. It was therapeutic, this cleanse, scrubbing the cars of their old owners. It had become a ritual.

It was also an opportunity for Jim to take stock. There were currently five cars locked up. The barn could hold eight if Jim did some creative parking and crammed them in, but turn around was so high overstocking had never been an issue. A lot of his recent jobs had been in the city, though, so maybe it was time to think about hitting a convention. Leave the city alone for a month or so. It had been a comfortable run, but time to give the population some space to forget his face. 

But first, to fence this. Jim worked his way over the body, soaping as he went. It was in good shape. Amazing shape. You couldn't legally drive an unmodified classic on the road these days, if you wanted to keep the energy regulators off your back, but this had been outfitted with the finest parts. Some of them weren't even on the market yet, if Jim were to bet. There was a compound in the black paint that withstood most nicks and resisted water, fine gold detailing twisting down the centre of the doors. Jim hadn't been lying, this car was far too nice to be in the hands of, well, someone other than himself, really.

By the time dusk was crawling across the horizon, Jim had finished. His white t-shirt was even more of a mess than Bones had left it, the dust caked in his hair from riding with the top down turning gritty. He was tempted to dump the bucket of water over his head and be done with it, but he opted to hop on a dirt bike, one of several they kept about the grounds to get around, and headed back to Bones.

o0o

Scotty'd disappeared for the day by the time Jim made it back, and there was a jalopy on the lift. The Fergus' from down the road, if Jim had to guess. He'd give it a once over tomorrow, if Bones hadn't already gotten to it. He started closing up shop, and they'd keep it closed tomorrow to fence this thing. Jim pushed the beads aside and ducked down to lock up the register tray. For what it was worth, all --he glanced in the tray-- forty six dollars. But they weren't sloppy, and under convenient duress Jim would admit that there was such a thing as good habits. 

The cheap bell that Jim'd scooped at a flea market dinged as a customer opened the front door.

"Sorry, we're just closing up for the night," he called out from behind the counter.

"Oh, we'll be quick. Spock and I just have one question." 

"Yeah? What's that?" Jim unfolded from his crouch to the slick snap of metal, and found the tip of an expandable baton under his jaw, forcing his chin up. On the other end was the women from that morning. Her eyes narrowed, and she wore a tight smile that might have well been ironed on. When she spoke again it was a purr. 

"Where's. My. _Car_?"

Jim's first instinct was not, surprisingly, to lie. 

Instead, he said, "Oh that makes so much more sense--" and caught the baton between his hands. He wrenched it to the side before she could jam it through his skull and stumbled backwards. It was easiest to fall back into it, roll out the door behind him and onto his feet. 

"Bones! Bones, we gotta go--" Jim called, as he ran into wall of muffled cursing and then, more solidly, a man's back. A man who was currently holding Bones against the car on the lift with a forearm against his throat. Jim stopped thinking and aimed for his waist, looking to take him to the ground. He was more solid than his frame would suggest, however, and Jim only succeeded in knocking him slightly off balance. It was enough to give Bones room to breath. The man didn't even turn, just paused to say, "Uhura, if you would be so kind," before Jim felt an elbow to his kidney and the baton go round his windpipe. He lost grip on the man, (Spock, evidently) trying to get purchase on the metal. Uhura put her weight behind it, and Jim choked and all but bent over backwards to compensate.

Bones had ducked Spock's grip and had scrambled under the car, popping up on the other side. Spock was circling to follow.

"Hey we can-- we can work this out," Jim wheezed.

"Honestly, I'd rather do it this way," Uhura hissed. "I'm sure the police won't ask questions when we tell them about your little operation." 

"Is that how the police work nowadays," Jim said, and drove his head back into her nose. He ducked free while she spit curses and made his way over Bones, who had grabbed a series of wrenches off the wall and was whipping them at Spock. 

"Yeah that's really fucking helpful, Bones!" Jim grabbed his arm and yanked him around, so he was facing Uhura and Jim had Spock. He gripped Bones' arm tighter for a moment, and let go. "Now I know you're gonna feel bad about hitting a girl but don't. She's really mean." Bones sighed anyway, before going straight for her baton.

Spock was fast, faster than Jim, and aimed for his face. Jim blocked it with his forearm, threw a left hook that just glanced off Spock's cheek. Spock grabbed his wrist before he could retract and locked it, used Jim's over exertion to land a blow on his exposed ribs. Jim doubled up, rode a strike to his back to the ground. He coughed, wet, and glanced at the canisters stacked to his left. He rolled before Spock could incapacitate him and grabbed the first canister he could reach. He aimed the cap at the floor and drove it downward, cracking the seal and spilling gasoline in a pool, before hurling a second at Spock. He flinched and Jim took the opening to play dirty, get a hold on his clothes and aim for Spock's right side. Spock's guard left his face open as he went to protect his heart. Jim got a solid hit, his knuckles cracking into Spock's temple.

"Bones, little help!"

Jim spared a moment, saw that Bones had made his way to the wall, to the breaker they used in lieu of light switches. He had a couple cuts for his trouble. Uhura had lost the baton and was limping slightly. Bones flipped a couple switches, and the drop light that hung from the extension cord on wall blazed to life. He unhooked it and let the cord run through his fingers, so the light nearly brushed the ground.

"Might want to stand back a little, darlin'."

Uhura balked for all of half a second before lunging forward. Bones quickly whipped the light through a couple rotations, gathering speed. On the top of a spin he let it go, where it whistled neatly into the puddle of gasoline slowly spreading over the floor.

The bulb broke with a crack and the gas ignited in a blaze. Spock was already moving away from Jim and toward Uhura, so Jim weaved around the car to the open door, grabbing Bones on the way. They piled into the Jeep they kept parked at the side of the building all year round, the keys to which they both had a copy of and kept on them at all times.

"This is why you don't steal from a goddamn Vulcan!" Bones said, shoving a key into the ignition.

"It was actually her car--"

"And could you have possibly gotten more gasoline on yourself? Jeep's gonna reek for weeks." They tore out of the lot, passed a rental half blocking driveway, and onto the open road.

Bones checked the rear view mirror for pursuit, but the road was clear. Spock and Uhura were either preoccupied with not dying or finding her car, Bones was fine with both options. It gave him time to decompress.

Jim grinned and brandished his knuckles at Bones. "It's not all mine."

"What?" Bones swatted the offending hand out of his sight line. 

"The blood. It's not all mine," he said, pointing out the green among the red.

"I think we have other priorities to worry about."

"Actually, I don't think we have any priorities at all right now except driving, which you are handling admirably, by the way, since--"

Bones kept talking as if Jim hadn't started. "And it's good thing one of us had the sense to prepare for this. Knew we couldn't keep this up forever, what with your dumb ass at the head of the operation." He reached into the backseat and withdrew a duffle that he then shoved at Jim. "One of us has to be the brains."

"Yeah, okay," Jim snatched the bag irritably, "who was the one who forgot to check that Lambo for a tracker--"

"Christ, Jim, never gonna let that one go."

"--when there's only one under every wheel rut in every car in manufacture, that I then had to reroute--"

"Are you done?"

Jim's mouth snapped shut and he poked through the bag. "How long has this been here?"

"Since we started. I add to it every month."

Jim said nothing, leafing through the stacks of bills inside.

Bones winced. "I know it's not much, but it'll keep us going for a little while. The shop's burned, now, more literally than I would have liked, and they'll find the barn soon enough-- maybe we can get Scotty to pull some before they… I mean, he'll have to hot-wire them, which will be a bitch to fix, but if he gets them out they'll never find 'em, we're too good at--"

"Bones, Bones, this is-- stop." Jim held up a wad. "This is-- stop worrying. This is great. This is better than great. I wasn't expecting-- and it--" he let out some unexpected laughter and cut himself off with a hand to his ribs. "…It hasn't been about the cars for a long time, Bones," he ended.

Jim gave Bones as many miles, as many exits, as he wanted to process.

"Where are we headed?" Bones asked finally. 

"That depends," Jim turned on the radio up, and up again. "Where do you want to go?"


End file.
